


All my friends they left me for dead

by rickyisms



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Las Vegas Aces, Recreational Drug Use, Rookie Kent, he's not doing okay and the second someone asks him he's gonna lose it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29937243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickyisms/pseuds/rickyisms
Summary: Nobody ever thought to ask Kent Parson if he was okay before they gave him a million dollars and access to more trouble than one 18 year old should reasonably be able to get into
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson & Jeff "Swoops" Troy
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61





	All my friends they left me for dead

**Author's Note:**

> this is an angst fest fair warning, like there's drugs and crying and dumb 18 year old bullshit

Kent blacked out last night, which he does more frequently than someone who still has to convince his teammates to buy drinks for him should be able to. Apparently he had gotten onto the table, stumbled and fallen to the floor in front of everyone else in the club, the bruises make sense if that’s really what happened. 

It’s not a big deal, he woke up in his hotel bed so who gives a fuck?

Not the team, not if he’s still their best player. Which he is, of course he is. Fuck anyone who thinks he’s not.

Kent like to party, it’s whatever, not a big deal. He’s 18 and he’s in the best shape of his life and he has more money than he’s ever known what to do with. Why not party? 

He wakes up in the hotel in Ohio, the game against the Blue Jackets went poorly and he’s vaguely aware of a headache, as long as he drinks some water and pops an advil it’ll be gone by lunch. Jeff is in the bed next to him, stirring at the same time Kent is. 

“I’m surprised you’re alive,” Jeff mutters.

“What do you mean?” Kent asks.

“You drank half the fucking minibar, dude.”

Kent waves his hand dismissively from his bed. 

“Whatever, we’re 18, it’s just a hangover.”

“ _ You’re  _ 18,” Jeff corrects, a matter of pride that he’s one stupid year older than Kent is even though all that means is that it took him an extra year of playing in the O before he made it to Vegas. 

Kent finds a bottle of gatorade that he’d left for himself sitting on the nightstand, how nice. 

He downs it in one gulp and throws the covers off of himself.

“You get laid last night?” Kent asks. 

“Classy,” Jeff snorts and rubs his eyes, “No. I did not. I’m fucking tired man.”

“Excuses,” Kent says. 

“Shut the fuck up, you never go home with anyone.”

“That you know of,” Kent wiggles his eyebrow. 

“Sorry, I forgot, you’re fucking mysterious,” Jeff says. 

You wouldn’t know it by listening to them talk to each other, but Jeff is the best friend that Kent has had in Las Vegas, they were drafted together and they practice together, they room together, fuck, Kent basically lives at Jeff’ apartment by now. Still, there’s an extra bite to Jeff’ words this morning that makes Kent a little bit uneasy.

The next stop on their road trip is Pittsburgh. Kent hates playing the Pens, not for any real reason and he’s only really played them twice. They’re just kind of annoying. They lose and Kent’s pissy about it in the dressing room. 

“Cheer up, Parser,” the captain’s grinning at him. 

Kent rolls his eyes and pulls the clear tape off of his socks and throws it into the middle of the room. 

“Bitch,” someone whispers under their breath. 

“Maybe I’d be in a better mood if you fucks fucking tried,” Kent snaps. 

“Shut the fuck up kid,” one of the team’s defensemen, Bunker stands up, Kent stands up too. 

“Sit down asshole,” someone else shouts. 

“Why should I?” Kent asks. 

“Because I’ll fucking end your shit, Parson,” Bunker says. 

“Yeah?” Kent takes a step forward and gets in his face. 

“Yeah,” the guy says, he grabs Kent by the shoulders and shoves him back. Kent clenches his fists as a reflex and he’s about to start swinging. 

Jeff is in between them before Kent can do anything about it. 

“Jeeeesus, calm down, hotheads!” Jeff shouts, he shoves Kent one way and Bunker the other way. 

“I don’t like losing, Jeff, maybe if someone other than me would fucking  _ try _ ,” Kent snaps. 

“We’re  _ all  _ trying,” Jeff says and he has his hand on Kent’s collar and shoves him back towards his stall. 

“Fuck,” Kent mutters under his breath. 

“We’re all getting drinks together,” Jeff announces, “Come or don’t.”

“Oh, I’m coming,” Kent says. 

He’s gotten better at compartmentalizing the losses, letting the too hot water in the showers wash away the goals that he convinces himself are his fault (all of them). If he’s not drunk, he’ll keep himself up all night thinking about it, so he’s drunk a lot. 

Three hours later, Kent is kneeling in a club and someone’s pouring vodka down his throat, some of it spills over his chest, but he doesn’t care, his shirt is pretty much all the way unbuttoned anyway. Kent stumbles to his feet, he hugs somebody and he buys a round of shots for everyone sitting in the VIP area. Jeff has his arm around a girl, she’s pretty, college probably, glitter on her face and a dress that hugs her body. 

People like Kent, he’s fun, he likes to think he’s charming, even when he starts standing on tables or shouting, or throwing up or something equally stupid. 

“Parse you should probably get down,” the defenseman from earlier’s voice cuts through Kent’s thoughts. He looks down, he’s standing on the table again. 

“Haha, right,” Kent says, he jumps down from the table, slips in a puddle of something (probably booze) and falls swiftly onto his ass. He groans. 

“Jesus, you’re a pain in my ass,” the defenseman says and then extends his hand for Kent to take. 

“You love me,” Kent teases, the words slur on his tongue. 

The defenseman shoves him away. 

“If you weren’t so good at hockey I’d kick your ass myself.”

“Pshhh,” Kent brushes him off and stumbles toward the dance floor. He’s shitfaced by now. 

The group of drunk girls he walks up to doesn’t seem to care. They swiftly declare him to be their new best friend and they dance, Kent doesn’t give a fuck about his team right now, he doesn’t give a fuck about hockey and he doesn’t give a fuck about Jack Zimmermann, just the way he likes it. 

One of the drunk girls, the redhead has her body pressed against his and she’s pretty much straddling his thigh at this point, which Kent supposes is the right idea, but he’s very much the wrong guy. 

“We should go somewhere more fun,” one of the drunk girls says. 

Kent agrees immediately. They step out into the cold night air and one of them lights a cigarette, before she can say no, she’s placing it between his lips and he’s taking a drag and then she kisses his cheek and leaves a lipstick stain. He grins and wraps his arm around her and her friend, the other girl is the least drunk and waiting by the curb for an uber. 

“You guys are sooo nice,” Kent’s slurring.

One of them giggles. 

Kent keeps chattering in the uber, he asks the driver how long he’s been driving and the guy laughs at him before telling him it’s been a couple years. 

“Have fun with your ladies,” the driver says to him with a wink. 

“They’re so much fun,” Kent says. 

Kent pretends not to be excessively drunk so that the bouncer will let them in. It’s pretty clear that he is, but he turns out to be a hockey fan, so Kent and his new best friends are allowed to stumble into the new club. It’s darker in here and there’s a girl dancing on the bar with what Kent is pretty sure is lingerie on. The lights are flashing different colours and the dancefloor is packed. 

Kent makes his way to the bar, he leans against it and waits for the bartender. 

“What can I get you?” he asks. 

Kent’s mouth goes dry when he sees the bartender, he is, excuse Kent’s language, but the sexiest fucking guy Kent has ever seen. There’s some stubble on his face and he’s wearing a black dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. He’s muscular and big and he has deep green eyes that look at Kent intently. 

“You,” Kent blurts out, “Whatever you’d have,” he course corrects. 

“If I were you I’d have a water,” the bartender says. 

“Nah,” Kent says, “Gimme the good stuff,” he says. 

“You like whiskey?” the bartender asks. 

Kent shrugs, “Vodka guy,” he says, “Mostly.”

“Alright then,” the bartender says. 

He doesn’t ask for Kent’s ID even though he really should, and come to think of it, the bouncer probably should have asked too. He wonders if the bartender recognizes him. 

He sets a shot down in front of him and Kent knocks it back immediately. It goes down smooth, he’s not sure if it’s because it’s good or because he’s drunk enough to drink diesel right now. 

He looks at the bartender, the bartender raises an eyebrow. 

“You want another?”

What Kent actually wants is for this guy to grab him by the shoulder, manhandle him into the bathroom and get him down on his knees. He doesn’t say that. 

“Yeah,” is what he says. 

He throws down some cash and heads to the bathroom. He runs his hands under the water. No matter how drunk he gets,  _ that _ is not something that he won’t do. Because that is the quickest, most surefire way to ruin his entire life, to ruin Jack’s life along with it. 

He looks up in the mirror. His face is red, a drunken blush has settled onto his cheeks and his hair is sweaty. There are bags under his eyes. He knows that he’s attractive, hot even, he sees the comments under his Instagram posts, but when he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t like what he sees. He takes off his hat and runs his hands through his hair. He doesn’t see a good person, or a person worth loving. He doesn’t even see a person worth fucking, a person worth looking at. He frowns. 

He needs another drink, but he won’t go back to the bartender with the stupid piercing eyes. 

He looks for his new best friends, but they moved on, he thought they would. There’s a guy standing near the bar, Kent slides up next to him, he orders a gin and tonic from the other bartender, a short brunette girl, she seems pretty safe. 

“Hey, you play for the Aces, right?” the guy asks. 

Kent grins, “Why yes I do,” he says, “Lemme guess, you’re a pens fan?” Kent says, he’s trying to be charming but he’s aware of the fact that he’s leaning forward and he’s smiling too wide. 

“Ha,” he says, “Bruins actually,”

Kent nods, “Nice.”

“I’m just waiting for my boyfriend,” the guy says. 

“Oh,” Kent says. He’s trying very hard not to react too strongly to the announcement. He feels his throat get dry. He takes a gulp of his drink. 

They guy raises his eyebrow. 

Kent downs the rest of his drink and orders another shot. 

“Hey,” Kent hears a familiar voice. 

The bartender from earlier walks up behind Bruins Guy and kisses him on the back of the head. Kent’s mouth is drier than it was before. 

“I was just talking to this guy,” Bruins Guy says. 

Were they talking?

“Ah, you,” the bartender says. 

They say something else but Kent zones out and they both look at him with their heads cocked to the side.

The bartender takes Bruins Guy by the hand and Kent watches them leave. He feels a tug in his chest that is now wholly unrelated to the way he’d felt about the bartender earlier. 

“Do you mind just leaving the bottle?” he asks the short bartender. She nods. 

Kent feels like he blinks and then he’s in an uber again and there’s a different group of drunk people around him, a pair of couples and three others, they all squeeze into the back of a minivan. And then Kent’s in another club and one of the girls from the uber is grinding against him and he’s holding her by the hips. 

He can feel the music in his chest, and that’s far preferable to the sinking feeling he’s been walking around with for days.

It feels good to just let loose, to let his arms flail around and jump on the dancefloor. He realizes that he’s surrounded by people who don’t give a fuck about him in the best possible way. None of them care about him, which means they don’t care if he’s dancing like an idiot or if he’s too drunk. He feels light and happy, and maybe a little bit nauseous, but he can ignore that.

“Yo, follow us,” one of the guys from the uber says and he grabs Kent by the wrist and they’re heading towards the bathroom, Kent’s too drunk to question what’s going on. He gets pulled into the women’s room, he’s about to protest, but he sees the girls they’d come with sitting on the counter and the guys toss a dime bag of something at them. 

And oh. 

That’s coke. 

This isn’t exactly a new experience for Kent, he played in the QMJHL, he plays in the NHL, guys on his team do it all the time. He just… never did it himself. 

He looks at the girl in the sequined dress, she scoops some of the powder out of the bag and rubs it on her gums, another one uses her nail to breath in through her nose. Someone hands Kent a rolled up one dollar bill and he sees them cutting lines on the edge of the sink. He looks closely at the powder and all he can think about is how on the few occasions when just taking the pills wasn’t enough for Jack, he would crush them up. Kent never saw him snort them, but he can imagine. He always looked away. He thinks maybe if he’d looked he would have realized that something was seriously wrong sooner. Maybe he could have stopped it. 

He realizes that he’s being stared at. His new friends are looking at him like he’s insane, and then he realizes he’s leaning against the wall, chest heaving. 

“You don’t have to do it, man,” one of the guys is saying. 

But it’s too late, Kent’s sliding down the wall and he’s breathing heavy and he has his hands in his hair. The next time he looks up, they’re gone and he’s alone. Kent thinks maybe he could just stay here, on this floor. What would someone do if they found him? Tell him to leave? So what. He can’t imagine a future where he’s not sitting on this bathroom floor. 

He squeezes his eyes shut. He can still see some of the residue on the sink, and they left the dime bag. Kent snatches it in his hands. He stands up and he drops it in the toilet. He flushes. He takes a wad of toilet paper and he gets it wet, and then he scrubs. He scrubs and he scrubs and he scrubs until he’s certain that there’s nothing left on the sink. 

He catches sight of himself in the mirror again. What a sorry fucking sight. When did he lose his hat? He remembers this shirt having more buttons. 

Kent couldn’t tell you the name of the club he’s standing in right now, he probably couldn’t even tell you if he was still in Pittsburgh. He slumps back down to the ground. 

The next thing he hears is the door swing open. He’s expecting to get chased out or sent home. Instead, 

“Jesus fucking christ.”

He looks up. Jeff. He looks down, there’s vomit on his dress shirt. When did that get there?

“What the fuck are you doing in here,” he says. 

Kent’s head falls to the side as he shrugs. 

Kent sees Jeff’s eyes scanning him, he can see the pity there. He knows what he looks like, tear tracks running down his face, his own barf on his shirt, 800 other kinds of disheveled. 

“What the fuck are you doing in the women’s bathroom, Parse?” Jeff repeats. 

“Would you believe me if I said I was getting some tail,” Kent says, trying to borrow the douche-vocab from some of his teammates. 

“No,” Jeff says simply. 

“Hey, fuck you, I can pull,” Kent slurs. 

“I don’t think you could stand up on your own,” Jeff says. 

“Fuck you,” Kent says. 

He tries and fails to pull himself up. Jeff extends his hand and Kent gets to his feet. 

“I’ve been looking for you for an hour man, why didn’t you answer any of my calls?”

“Turned off my phone,” Kent answers. 

“I fucking hate you,” Jeff says, and then he grabs Kent by the shoulder and pulls him into a tight hug. Not the kind of hug from a goal celebration or the one in the locker room where they really only bump shoulders and make sure their dicks don’t touch. This hug is full bodied and warm and tight. Kent’s tense, but Jeff doesn’t let go, he just holds on until Kent feels himself resting his head against Jeff’s shoulder. 

“How did you know where I was?” Kent asks. 

“I’ve been guessing. Asking people if they’ve seen you.”

“Why?” Kent asks. 

“You’re alone,” Jeff says, “Why would I leave you alone?”

Kent hides his face in his own shoulder as he steps away from Jeff. 

“The rest of the team didn’t give a fuck, did they?” Kent says. 

“Well can you blame them?” Jeff says harshly. 

Kent swallows hard and shakes his head. He’s made a habit out of getting too drunk, he can’t blame anyone for being done with his shit. 

“But you’re here.”

“Fuck off,” Jeff says, “I’d kill you if I knew you weren’t already trying,” and then he grabs Kent by the shoulder and guides him out onto the curb. 

Jeff basically has to dump him into the uber and keep his arm around him so he’s upright. 

Kent hopes that Jeff will leave him alone by the time they get back to the hotel, but he’s wrong. Jeff locks the door behind them and grabs Kent by the back of the shirt when he tries to flop face first into bed. 

“You’re showering,” Jeff says, “If you get on the plane smelling like a liquor store the team might actually fucking jump you.”

“What do they care?”

“They’re sick of your shit, Parson,” Jeff sighs. 

Kent shrugs. He takes off his shirt and tosses it in the general direction of his suitcase. He starts to close the bathroom door behind him, but Jeff catches it with one hand. 

“What the fuck?” Kent says. 

“I’m not leaving you alone,” Jeff says. 

“Motherfucker,” Kent mutters. 

Jeff just shrugs. 

“What are you gonna do, sit on the toilet while I wash my hair?” Kent scoffs. 

“Great idea,” Jeff says. 

“Can shower on my own,” Kent mumbles. 

Jeff shrugs again, he sits on the toilet. 

“Go ahead.”

Kent sighs, he strips down. Showering in front of Jeff isn’t a big deal, he does it every day, and it’s not like Jeff cares about what Kent is packing in the slightest. 

The water hits his chest and he feels his eyes drifting closed. He feels himself leaning against the shower wall and then he feels his feet falling out from under himself. He feels Jeff’s hand on his bicep pulling him up. He gasps and he can’t catch his breath. Jeff’s hand is still on him. He has to be getting his t-shirt wet to hold Kent up. Kent squeezes his eyes shut. 

He feels the spray of water stop as Jeff turns off the tap. Kent sits on the edge of the bathtub, his eyes are still squeezed shut. 

“Here,” Jeff says and Kent feels a towel being wrapped around his shoulders. 

“What happened, man?” Jeff asks. 

Kent shakes his head, “Don’t wanna talk about it.”

He hears Jeff sigh. Then he feels a bottle of water in his hand. He chokes some of it down. 

“Parse, dude,” Jeff says, “Don’t you trust me?”

Kent shakes his head and swallows hard. 

He hears Jeff make a low disapproving sound come from Jeff. 

“Whatever your shit is, you have to sort it out,” Jeff says. 

Kent just shrugs, “It’s fine, it’s just fun,” Kent says, “Just partying.”

“You were on the floor,” Jeff mutters. 

“What’s wrong with the floor,” Kent laughs. 

“Fuck,” Jeff says, “The rest of the team is so done with this, man. And I’m starting to get where they’re coming from. Watching this is fucking exhausting.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Kent whines. 

“Name one day this week that you weren’t drunk,” Jeff says. 

And Kent… can’t. It was a couple shots on tuesday, not too bad, drinking with the team on wednesday, a couple more shots on wednesday, getting trashed on thursday, and now friday, here. He bites his lip. 

Jeff holds his hand up  _ see what I mean  _ he seems to be saying. 

“I just wanna go to bed, man,” Kent says. 

“Okay,” Jeff says, “Sleep on your side.” 

Kent powers on his phone to make sure that his alarm goes off. There are nine missed calls from Jeff. 

That’s what does it. Kent feels tears streaking down his cheeks. He’s trying to be quiet, but Jeff must hear him, because Jeff rolls over in his own bed and faces him. 

“Parser,” Jeff whispers. 

“What,” Kent hisses. 

His team doesn’t like him, he doesn’t think they ever really have, Jack’s gone… tried to be anyway, he hasn’t talked to his family in months, and now Jeff too. Kent feels like he deserves to be alone, deserves to still be on the bathroom floor. 

“Did you take something?” he asks. 

“What?” Kent asks, confused. 

Jeff reaches over and turns on the light in between them. 

“Other than the booze,” Jeff says, “Did you take anything? I know Bunker had coke,” Jeff says. 

Kent swallows hard. 

“Not Bunker, fuck Bunker,” he says, “But uh,” Kent says, throat dry, “I was going to. I tried to. I couldn’t,” he says. 

He sees Jeff nod in his bed. 

“I uh.” Kent says, “Stuff’s weird.”

“Yeah,” Jeff says, “I can see why.”

Kent sighs, “I just feel… I dunno. Bad. I’ve felt bad since I got here.”

There’s an unspoken rule on the team, with the media at Aces games, with just about everyone in hockey, you don’t ask Kent about Jack Zimmermann. So it surprises Kent when Jeff just out and says his name.

“That was what? Like three months after your best friend almost died? Don’t look at me like that, we all know you were there when what happened with Zimmermann happened.”

Kent sighs, “He used to crush his pills,” Kent says, “Like until they were a powder so he could…” he coughs, “You know.”

“Oh,” Jeff says, “So it must be hard to see…”

“Yeah,” Kent says. 

“I’m sorry,” Jeff says. 

“Not your fault,” Kent says. 

“Still,” Jeff says, “you uh. You deserve to be able to feel better.”

“Thanks,” Kent mumbles, he pulls the covers over his shoulder, he remembers what Jeff told him about sleeping on his side. 

Maybe he’ll feel better. Maybe, for Jeff’s sake. 

The next weekend, Jeff has to carry Kent home from a strip club that Bunker insisted that the team go to. Jeff dragged him into his own apartment and pulled his blankets over him. 

“I’m not doing this again, Parse,” Jeff mutters under his breath. 


End file.
